sadoo 9.9

readers! being a sadoo is no harder or easier than being a manager of prunes, subway operator, european council president, shaman, sex worker, or farmer. but the challenges are different and the literature scarce. a sadoo’s distinction is partially that these other jobs – despite their vast differences – all trade in common concerns and values; they cooperate – even in their antitheses and struggles – in societal production and its members share a faith in time. a sadoo doesn’t necessarily discredit time, but neither does it affirm it; time for a sadoo is equal to potato or malediction. who would have faith in a potato? who would live inside it? who would give it greater credence than the billion billion things apart from time? and if you would say – but these other things (potatoes, maledictions, operators, faiths) themselves are functions of time and aspects of it, i, fukky, would say – this is faith! i have no evidence that an operator is more a function of time than time a function of an operator. becoming is a process of disillusionment and signs of becoming are the newborn illusions that arise.

to support, then, such doubts and happinesses, now and then i include in sadoos letters from our diverse community – members of the psychic rainforest (often threatened or extinct in the wild, members of the menagerie of the soul).

if you would write me –

  fukky risotto

  minto island lagoon

  c/o acteon group

  tuamotus

  mangareva islands

  pōrīnetia farāni

  gaul

– and i’ll respond to you when dew speaks and fire dreams.

today i’m pleased to respond to sadoo 9.9 of troff panny, who writes of an issue that engages and inspires us all – madness.

dear fukky,

when i was 11 – i remember the day vividly – i was in the upstairs bathroom of my parents’ home, eating boogers in the bathtub – and i realized i was destined to become a student of madness. while this truth has never left me, i paid it scant attention until i was 22 – the time one begins taking life seriously, and then set out to seek madness’ unknown paths. by 33 all i had learned were the paths madness wasn’t, and one of these is the path most call madness. for the names of the sane are designed to disguise their complicity in manufacturing the monsters they require to sustain the mirrors of their viability. being then the handmaid of a false sanity, i wanted no more to do with that madness than i did with sanity. by 44 i had ridden the often loud and colorful carousel of alternatives. shamans, hallucinogens, gurus, zen masters, prophets, creators, anarchists, ecologists, atavists, nudists, bohemians, polyamorists, retreat leaders, musicians, ngo ed’s, witch doctors, anti-psychiatrists … but all of them had web sites and were more interested in money and pleasure than madness. by 55 i had wandered through the most arcane reaches of knowledge scattered randomly in time and space. i had sought – and found – the most obscure writers – philosophers, poets, mystics – in the most obscure books in the most obscure libraries in the most obscure locations, loved only by dust. but in the end they only stated in more abstruse and neglected form what others said in commonplaces and loudly, from turrets, spires, and skyscrapers. by 66 i had stopped seeking and fell into myself, a curious child of chaos and void. and this falling was neither constructive nor destructive, enlightening nor despairing, ignorant nor educational, a step forward nor a step back. at 77, i turned to technology and became a cyborg, replacing as much of my body as possible with electronics, supplementing my newborn machine flesh with pharmaceuticals, inseparable from media, polydimensional sensuality, the edges of techgnosis. now, at 88, soon to die, doubting life’s seriousness, a concatenated mash of beeps and flashes, knowing there are no schools or mentors in madness, no guides, no curricula, no communities … one walks alone ... i write to you, administrator of sadoos.

sadoo 9.9 of troff panny

dear sadoo 9.9 of troff panny,

you have walked a path of madness and madness is only a path. your bathtub vision has been embodied and made metal. so we all walk and so visions turn to flesh and silicon, silicon and flesh to visions, these sublimations of the soul. thanks for sharing.

fukky

sadooing

Fukky's always happy to share excerpts of sadoo communications. This week, some selections from recent sadoo missives about the art and aimlessness of sadooing.

the common human thinks my life and thoughts strange, but my orientations are simple and reasonable:  i aim to exist as little as possible in the ostensibly normal worlds – the worlds of money, society, ambition, pleasure – in order to make myself wholly available for sensations to manifest in me, which i then translate into words, attempting to mold the form and content of those words precisely into the experiences of the sensations.  thus much of my life is waiting, experiencing, translating, molding.  i wish to leave behind records of the sensations of a life.  this is my experiment and why your names and prizes have never held much interest for me, for these often seem to have more to do with conformity than creativity, middlingness than talent, blind repetition than unbounded experimentation.

words for a sadoo have less to do with meaning and more with sound and sensation; they are natural expressions of particular modes rather than expressions of utility, beauty, or concept.  so a sadoo lives, breathes, and words – and no more meaning is to be imparted to one of these activities than any other.  that humans typically associate breath with life and words with cognition, analysis, and meaning is odd to the sadoo.  fish swim, birds fly and chirp, humans talk – language is just the sound humans make.  so a sadoo who writes sees its experience of writing as making natural sounds and feels no need to conform its word choices, its grammatical and syntactical structures, its cognitive and narrative flows, to any societal or aesthetic convention but only to its modes in the world at the time of writing.  truth is as far from language as it is from potatoes.

if my writing as a sadoo seems strange to the normally enculturated citizen, this may be in part only because the normally enculturated citizen seems most strange to the sadoo and – being born into this world and being forced to some extent to have to negotiate with its extremely odd customs and proclivities, so often unquestioned, reified by the average human – so its sensations will not infrequently deal with its movements through the comedies and horrors of the barbarisms, absurdities, tyrannies, and infantilities of the dominant and frequently assumed human conventions, values, mores, and grammars.

so death is often central for a sadoo, hardly from any morbidity but due to the heavy disjunctures it must embody to live inescapably in an alien land and the weariness that comes from having to speak in foreign tongues and translate from its natural languages of joy and freedom into syntaxes and dictions that feel caged, regressive, small.  yet since i have seen the thousand disguises on your tyrannies, i devote as little energy as possible to you.  i do not care to be understood.

the bulk of citizenry are enculturated – this the slow incarcerating process of education – to conform their patterns of thought and behavior to increase the likelihood of social functioning and maintenance of the economic order.  a sadoo has little investment in this functioning and maintaining and so doesn’t feel chained to expected ideas and lifestyles.  if this should leave sadoos rather melancholic and outcast, this isn’t because they envy the bulk, but only because they too, being housed in human form, enjoy some society, and yet must reconcile themselves to being primarily solitary, as freedom of expression and movement is more valuable to them than any arbitrary or enforced objectives of happiness, comfort, or pleasure.